Forgotten
by ignitesthestars
Summary: "His name was Aleksander," Alina murmurs one day, and Nikolai understands that she's given him a piece of herself that no one else has ever seen.


The anniversary found Alina Lantsov in the rooms that had once been the Darkling's.

Much of the Little Palace had been destroyed when he had taken Os Alta, but this place had remained untouched. Not out of any sentimentality for the area he had once slept, she was sure, but because it was the place _she_ had taken over.

Even when she wasn't there, he had tried to claim her.

The Darkling might have left it as it was, but after asking Alina if she minded, Nikolai had stuck his hands into the project with the same effort and flair he did everything else. It was a library now, a place of serenity and peace, decorated in pale blue and gold.

Or at least, it was until she reached the place where a wall had once stood, set with massive doors. The quiet sound of her footsteps seemed to shatter the room, stripping the colour and the life away, rebuilding something dark from the depths of her memories. Alina stretched out a hand, fingertips trembling.

Either she would touch the handles, or brush right through them. She couldn't decide which was worse.

A rustle of clothing behind her made her close her eyes. For a brief, wild second, she thought it was him.

"Hallucination is my bag, I believe." Nikolai's voice was dry, but Alina could still pick out the note of concern there. He didn't touch her, but the weight of his presence behind her pricked at her shoulder blades, a warmth radiating towards her.

"Nightmares aren't hallucinations."

She forced her eyes open again, watching the colour bleed back into the room, the bits and pieces reassembling until it was a library again. Nikolai's nightmares were a terror of darkness and inhumanity. Sometimes, she could reach him. Other times, he woke to find his bed empty as she had Genya take care of the marks his desperate hunger left on her.

"I defer to your expertise."

She snorted, trying not to tense as his fingers whispered over her shoulder. She could barely feel them through the weight of the formal dress she wore.

Not a _kefta_. Not anymore. Sankta Alina had risen from the dead to become Queen Lantsov. _Tsaritsa_. She had given her gift to the people, and the people had brought her back. Now she devoted her second life to them in a new incarnation.

Or so went the myth, at least.

The truth was different, because it always was. The truth was, there was a hollow ache in her gut, in her heart, in every inch of her body where power had once sung. A darkness in her veins where there had once been light, and hands stained with blood that never should have been spilled.

Mal had his own empty spaces, gaping holes that Alina could no longer fill. Bits and pieces that had once seemed to slot perfectly into place now cut and bruised in ways that even a Tailor couldn't cover up.

So he was off on the border, a general of the First Army. And she was in Os Alta, Queen Alina Lantsov, first of her name.

Slowly, without really thinking of it, she lifted her hand to cover the gentle weight of Nikolai's on her shoulder. He had removed his glove, and she thought she felt her heart stutter a bit at that. He so rarely took them off, she couldn't help but feel honoured every time she felt the brush of skin on skin.

Her fingers tightened.

"The crowds were a lot," she said finally. She could feel her body swaying backwards, the smallest amount. And then a little more. The back of her dress crinkled against the velvet of his chest as, inch by inch, she allowed herself to melt into him.

Nikolai took all of her, his free arm curling around her waist and tugging her in close. He squeezed hard enough that she almost felt like there weren't ten thousand layers of finery separating the two of them. Like they hadn't risen before dawn and gotten dressed up to watch the rising of the sun with thousands of people who thought her a saint.

Like she hadn't just celebrated her own death, real or not.

(Like she hadn't just celebrated _his_).

"I'd offer to limit the number of devotees next year, but I think that would have me labelled as a tyrant and overthrown." Nikolai's warm breath ghosted over what bare skin was left to her upper body under all that dress. It wasn't sexual, or even sensual; he took the same comfort from holding her as she did from being held. "One war for the crown is enough for any man, even one as attractive as I am."

They were each other's lifelines. Strange, when most of her life, Alina would have given that title to another man. Not that she loved Mal any less, even with the distance and gaps between them, but in the nine months since they'd been married, her love for Nikolai had snuck up on her.

There were a lot of men crowded into Alina Lantsov's heart.

She turned in the circle of his arm, giving his hand a faint squeeze before draping both of her arms over his shoulders. He didn't look as tired as she might have feared, and what exhaustion was in his features was wiped away by his smile at the sight of her face. Alina raised an eyebrow at him.

"Should I be worried about your stamina?"

"I should feed you your fingers for an insult like that," he growled, and she took the playful timbre of his voice and wrapped it around herself until she felt halfway normal.

Whatever that was, for a saint and a queen and an orphan.

"Abandoned even by your dogs?"

She stepped in even closer until they were pressed flush together, like she could maybe step inside him, hide from her own darkness by revelling in his. But that wouldn't be fair on him, so Alina remained where she was, letting her forehead rest on his shoulder with a soft sigh.

Slowly, scarred hands started to rub circles into the small of her back.

"My misfortune to marry a woman with a mouth."

She could feel his lips moving against her hair, which Genya had thankfully left simple, a concession to the saint when she was dressed as a queen.

"I don't think even you could create mouthless women, Lantsov," she told his neck. "And if you could, you'd deserve whatever revolution came your way."

"Cruel words, Lantsov." The name as it referred to her sounded strange on every tongue but his. "So much for the benevolent saint."

Alina stilled. She didn't mean to – she usually bore all of her titles at least well, if not with the grace they were really due. But it felt closer today, all of the lies and half-truths that had gone into constructing the figure of Alina Lantsov.

"I'm not any kind of saint."

Her shoulder sagged after the words escaped her, and she wasn't not sure if she had released something trapped, or removed something holding her up. Either way, Nikolai took her weight easily.

"And I'm not the son of any Lantsov," he pointed out. "But I defy you to find a single person who would consider us the worst of Ravka's choices these past few years."

A dark, smooth chuckle lingered in her ears, a still pool disturbed by a single pebble. Alina half expected that, if she were to lift her head from her husband's shoulder, she would see the Darkling there, face mocking and jealous and waiting for her to return to him.

He would have been a tyrant. He would have been a king greater than the world had ever seen.

But he was dead, and rightfully so. Alina lifted her head, and found only the quiet understanding of her husband's eyes.

"I can leave," he offered, although his grip on her said he wanted to do anything but. "If you need time. We aren't wanted anywhere for a good hour."

Of course. It was still morning, and the day was packed with any number of ceremonies and commemorations. Nikolai had arranged it all, which was probably why this break existed in the first place. He had known she would need time, and accounted for it.

"His name was Aleksander," she said after a moment, and no dark laughter haunted her. She hadn't even told Mal this.

Nikolai's mind was quick; there was no widening of the eyes, no confusion followed by sudden understanding. Just a pause, before he lowered his head in acknowledgement.

"I'll remember it," he said quietly, and she wondered how much that cost him. He might have understood her mixed emotions, but he definitely didn't share them.

But there was a steadiness to his breath and his hands as he bent down to brush a kiss across her forehead. Alina had to pause herself, untangling the gesture, teasing out the threads of meaning.

Comfort, of course. But something else, deeper.

Appreciation.

Alina lifted her head higher, tangling her fingers in blond hair, and dragging his mouth down to hers. It was a harsh, but only for a second,a single instant. His lips closed over hers, and everything softened, edges melting away until there was nothing left in Nikolai for her to hurt herself on.

She could only hope he felt the same way.

"You've mussed me," he sighed into her mouth, making no move to shift away from her.

Alina snorted, ruffling his perfect hairstyle until blond locks fell across his forehead. Genya would be able to see to it before he needed to be seen anywhere else.

"Good."


End file.
